


Пріидите, поклонимся (the call to worship)

by lammermoorian (orphan_account)



Series: no night could be darker than this night [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, vaguely satanist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sassy Week Secret Santa // Lucifer Loyalist Castiel plays guardian angel to the prophesied savior of the damned, Sam Winchester, watching over him and preparing him to take up his mantle as the Boy King and free their god from his prison. // Merry Christmas, Jack, and wæs þu hæl!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Пріидите, поклонимся (the call to worship)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luciferious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciferious/gifts).



_Пріидите, поклонимся_

Castiel has no congregation before him; there are few who this story, and fewer still who know his purpose. They shall come to him in time, but for now, he is content to sit upon the wet, grimy pavement of a nameless back alley in Pennsylvania, hands upraised to welcome to the late autumn thunderstorm, and speak for the congregation of his own body. He prays. “Lord,” he murmurs, the gravel grit of his voice carrying no further than the alleyway in which he sits, “mighty prisoner, king of light, son of dawn. O morningstar, hallowed be thy name. Let thy dominion come, and let all the world be drenched in thy fury. I ask you this day to be my guiding light, to lead me from the dark pit of injustice, and take me up into thy righteousness.” Even now, even after millennia of litanies and worship, the words sit heavy on his tongue, a false communion. Castiel was not made for this; he was woven to exalt a false god, and though he is steadfast in his conviction, he cannot help but to keep his words to himself, lest anyone of his former faith hear him.

"I have searched this world over, but I have not found the one whom I seek," he whispers to the shadows, ashamed. "He has been hidden from my sight, whether by the Sword or by another hand, I do not know. I ask you now, most holy one, to send me a sign - I am close, I feel it. I only need - "

"Well, this is a sight." The slimy, oozing voice of Azazel interrupts, slithering into earshot. "A little lost, Mr. Wise Man?"

"Unless you're here with good news, scapegoat, I must ask you to leave." Castiel does not like Azazel. He knows of few who do, and demons are a special breed unto themselves; personally, he finds them repugnant, a warped and broken ideal of what it is to be human, but they do have their uses. Spies, assassins, grunts - soldiers, like Castiel used to be. For the most part, he turns a blind eye to them, their possessions and their volatile, murderous personalities, in favor of striking out on his own, but there are times when he is forced to work with them for a common goal. They are searching for their lord's holy vessel, his human form on Earth, sometimes called the Boy King, or the Star-Son. It has been a relentless, grueling search; the only sure thing is that the vessel will be of the blood of Adam, from a line unbroken throughout human history. Every demon, every fallen angel is scouring the world at this moment, searching for the prophesied savior of the damned. Alliances are forged and shattered within seconds, Hell's factions splitting and reforming under new leaders everyday. Castiel himself has an uneasy alliance with Abaddon, one of the inner circle. They understand each other very well, he feels. She is not Crowley, who, Castiel learned very early on, is composed of nothing but bravado and bluffs, or Lilith, who stews in her ecstasy and her madness and plots until Judgement Day. Abaddon is a warrior, a force of nature with a single-minded intensity that leaves him in awe and envy, but Azazel is a politician, and Castiel has never understood their ilk.

Azazel chuckles, pushing his wet hair back from his face. His host is an old man, with spotted and wrinkly skin, and the stench of impending expiration. Castiel expects that he will not survive this attack on his body. Before, he may have felt something like sorry; he almost wished for that instead of this empty apathy. "Is that anyway to treat a colleague? I just happened to be in the neighborhood, thought I would check up on how you're doing. I know it must be hard for you," he croons, false kindness and empathy exuding from every pore, "the hero in the den of thieves. How we must look to you, _malak_ \- how lowly, how filthy. Worried that your bright, shining light will be tainted from my presence? Scared that someone might come along and clip your wings, just for shits and giggles?" His laughter bubbles and gurgles through his host's throat, as if the body is choking on it. The faint echo of a scream bounces around Castiel's ears as Azazel extends a hand and says, "Well, I can promise you, that's not why I'm here. Tonight, anyway." Castiel ignores the hand, pushing himself up.

"I don't need your help."

"Oh, of course; you just like sitting in wet alleyways for fun, my mistake. Castiel," he draws the syllables out, stretching his mouth across yellowing, chipped teeth, eyes glinting, "I'm just trying to make this easier for you."

Something sickly curled at the base of his spine, winding its way into his heart and squeezing, leaving him cold. "I am perfectly capable," he said lowly, "of finding the peacebringer without you."

"Then why haven't you?" he simpers, lips twitching.

Castiel flushes. "Adam's tree has many branches," is forced from his mouth, word by word like a bullet, "the line of the first family is strong and unbroken, and visiting each child takes _time_ \- "

"He's in Kansas." Castiel goes cold. The scapegoat cannot have already found him - this was _Castiel's_ mission, _Castiel's_ task, proof that he was faithful, the most faithful - "Probably. That's where I've just come from, anyway. Don't worry your pretty little head, _malak_ , I haven't found him yet, either. I'm simply... casting a wide net." He rubs at a spot on his wrist, almost absent-mindedly. "I've got my plan set in place. How about yours, mm?"

“Why?” Castiel is, of course, skeptical. They have no alliance. They have barely even spoken before now. Azazel shrugs, tugs at an ear.

“Why not?” He points in a direction behind Castiel, East, who turns and follows the length of his finger. “Lawrence, Kansas. Cute little family called the Winchesters. Well, they were cute.”

When Castiel turns back, Azazel has gone. The stench of sulfur fills the vacuum that he has left, and Castiel nearly chokes on it, stomach heaving. He is the foulest, most despicable creature, but he is old, and clever, and he knows things, obscure rites and answers to long-dead riddles, and he may have indeed found the boy king by now, whether he knew it or not. It is a risk that Castiel will not take, so East he must go. With a flutter of wings, he disappears.


End file.
